Red Rot

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Inside

I was never good at sitting still. There was always a next thing, even in childhood. There was forever something that needed finishing.

The Renaissance man in me wants to use the time, wants to read Ulysses, wants to learn Samoan before his father dies, wants to write, thinks now would be a good time to edit the chapbook or pull out the gouache.

The scared woman in me wants to pass the time, has been cleaning, has been obsessively refreshing New York Times live updates, has been obsessively playing Words with Friends.

The dead have been dying in places I have been and never been, while we hunker in a small apartment. Grey morning light streams into rainy Brooklyn windows, and I know I'm not the only one looking outside.

10:09 a.m. - 2020-03-29

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